


Differential Diagnosis

by sylviarachel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Consent, Fluff, Guaranteed plot free, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock has feelings, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:57:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1858842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylviarachel/pseuds/sylviarachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Too many days of no sleep and too many nicotine patches have a tendency to erode Sherlock's filters. Fortunately, John is capable of being a responsible adult even when Sherlock isn't.</p>
<p>Also fortunately, John has some experience in diagnosing the symptoms Sherlock doesn't understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Differential Diagnosis

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this over the course of several months, in the back of my work notebook while on irrelevant conference calls and such, and just found the folded pages at the bottom of my backpack. I tidied it up a bit while transcribing, but it's still just 100% self-indulgent Johnlock fluff. Sorry if you were, you know, wanting something else.

“We need to go now,” John says firmly. He takes Sherlock by the elbow and tugs.

Sherlock frowns down at him. He seems unusually far away, and actually rather … swimmy. “Why?” he asks. It seems a reasonable question.

John’s forehead creases in an interesting way; Sherlock studies it.

“Because,” John says, “you last slept four days ago, and you’ve been subsisting on coffee and nicotine patches for the past two, and it’s my professional opinion, Sherlock, that we’ve only got about another half-hour before you just fall over.”

Sherlock blinks. Curiously, John’s hand on his arm seems clearer and more … _real_ than anything else he is currently experiencing. The hand tugs again; Sherlock, interested, follows it.

He registers, vaguely, the journey out to the street, into the back of a cab. John tries to push him in first, but Sherlock’s attention has been caught by the glint of sunlight on John’s hair, which limns some strands gold, some silver, shifting as he moves. Sherlock reaches for the little glints, but they’re receding as John’s hair, along with the rest of John, disappears into the dark cave of the taxi, and Sherlock tumbles in after him, fetching up close against John’s warm woollen shoulder.

He vaguely feels that he ought to move away, but it seems like too much effort.

His head tilts over; his eyes fall closed, and he breathes the smell of John. 

* * *

 

When Sherlock opens his eyes again, John is shaking his shoulder and saying, “Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up.”

“’M not asleep,” Sherlock says firmly. At least, he means to say it firmly, but in actual fact the words come out in a blurry mumble against John’s neck.

“Of course you’re not,” John says. There’s laughter in his voice, but it’s affectionate rather than mocking; John sounds … _fond_. “You were just resting your eyes.”

Sherlock slithers out of the cab and finds himself on the pavement in front of Speedy’s. He wanders over to the door of 221 and peers at the brass numbers.

Two. Another two. One.

“Beeeee,” he says experimentally. “Bee.”

Bees. Sherlock likes bees. Fascinating creatures. So efficient. No wasted effort.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice again, amused, concerned. Sherlock blinks; discovers that he’s leaned his forehead against the smooth surface of the door.

“Come along, then,” says John.

It seems to take a very long time to get in the door, through the entry and up the stairs. Sherlock counts the steps as he climbs them, lopsidedly leaning on John: “One. Two. Three…”

He tries to summon the energy to be offended by John’s little snort of laughter when he gets to “Thickth. Theven. Eight,” but can’t, quite, because John smells so nice. In the dim interior his hair is less fascinating, but the lack of visual distraction only makes other sources of sensory input more salient and vivid: the warm press of John’s fingers through the sleeve of Sherlock’s jacket, the calming susurrus of John’s breathing, the heady scent of him: wool and sweat and laundry soap and tea and cheap shaving foam from Boots, and underneath it all … _John._

“John,” Sherlock says, and again, “John.”

John chuckles, but there’s something under his laughter now – worry. Concern.

Does John ever wonder, as Sherlock so often does, what would happen if one night, one day, instead of parting at the door of the flat – John to put the kettle on, say, and Sherlock to change out of his battle dress and into a dressing-gown – they came together? Towards one another, instead of away?

He only realizes he’s inadvertently spoken some part of this thought aloud when John stills beside him and says, low and tense and vibrating with some strong emotion, “How did you know?”

Sherlock turns to him, looks down, blinks. He really does need to sleep; it’s impossible to get a grip on anything. “What?” he says.

“How. How did you – how could you _possibly_ know I was thinking … that. I don’t – I’ve never–”

Sherlock is too blurry-brained to parse this immediately. All he seems to be able to do is blink again, swaying slightly, and repeat, “What?”

Eventually, however, it dawns on him that the answer to his original question – _Has John ever wondered?_ – is yes.

And they’re already face to face, already touching, and from that _coup de foudre_ it’s the tiniest of steps to bend his head down towards John’s and kiss him.

Just once, he tells himself, to see what will happen.

What happens is: John goes (impossibly) even more still, and John’s pulse races and Sherlock’s does too, and then suddenly John is clutching at Sherlock and kissing back desperately, hungrily, as though he’s not sure he will ever have another chance, and Sherlock is flying, or feels as though he is.

Except that then, just as suddenly, John’s clutching hands are flat on Sherlock’s pectoral muscles and John is pushing him away with a great shuddering gasp.

Sherlock comes back to earth, _thump_ , and stands there shaking, breathing hard.

“Not—not now,” John says. His voice isn’t quite steady.

“What?!”

“Not,” John repeats, “now.” He sucks in a deep breath, huffs it out. “You’re not—”

“That wasn’t an accident, John,” Sherlock says. This may not be his area but does know that much. Knows, too, that whatever John was thinking a moment ago, it wasn’t _stop._

“No,” John says, and now that familiar fondness is bleeding into his tone. “No, I didn’t think it was.”

He’s gone a bit blurry again. Then he goes very slightly sideways, and then his hands are gripping Sherlock’s biceps and his voice, now very far away for some reason, is saying, “Sherlock! Sherlock, for Christ’s sake sit _down_ , you enormous dickhead.”

The next thing Sherlock knows he’s sprawled across the sofa.

Sofa! Good. Excellent. The only thing missing is—

“John?”

“Making you a sandwich,” says John, from the kitchen.

Sherlock frowns. The kitchen is _much_ too far away. “Not hungry,” he says.

“Bollocks.”

Sherlock doesn’t argue, distracted by the images suddenly rising in front of his eyes, and before he knows it there’s a sandwich and a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of him.

“Not hungry,” he repeats, petulant now: why doesn’t John _listen_?

“Look at me,” John says. Sherlock looks up; John’s standing on the far side of the table, arms folded. He holds Sherlock’s gaze as he says, “Eat. The. Fucking. Sandwich.”

 _Oh_. Sherlock blinks.

Then he picks up the closest half of the sandwich and brings it to his lips.

To his astonishment, after the first bite he finds he _is_ hungry—ravenous, in fact—and he polishes the whole thing off at almost John-speed. When he looks up at John again, he’s rewarded with a soft, fond smile.

“Better?” John asks him.

Sherlock reaches for his mug.

“Now?” he says, hopefully. The mug warms his hands; he looks at John through the slight heat haze.

John’s fond smile edges towards exasperation, achingly familiar. “Sleep first,” he says.

Sherlock blinks at him. “Please?” he says.

John’s eyes squeeze shut briefly; he looks down at his feet and rubs the back of his neck with one hand.

Sherlock wants to see John’s eyes again. “John?” he says.

John looks up, and Sherlock is so stupidly happy just to see his face, his familiar, lined, beautiful, _beloved_ face, that he can’t keep a big, idiotic grin from breaking out over his own.

“Sherlock,” John says. “You’re … you’re half off your face from sheer exhaustion. That’s practically the definition of ‘unable to consent.’ So—”

“Your eyes are so beautiful,” says Sherlock dreamily. “They’re so many shades of blue.”

And suddenly much, much bigger.

It takes Sherlock a very long few seconds to work out that this is because John is kneeling on the floor at Sherlock’s feet and peering up into his face at close range. His left hand comes up to cradle Sherlock’s temple, his thumb tugging very gently at Sherlock’s eyelid; his right hand is a warm, comforting weight on Sherlock’s left knee.

John takes a deep breath and looks over Sherlock’s left shoulder. _Inability to make eye contact_ , some part of Sherlock’s brain notes; _indicates strong emotion._

Then he looks back at Sherlock, squaring his shoulders, and says very firmly, “Bed.”

Sherlock grins again – he can’t help it – and sits up straighter. “Excellent idea,” he says. “I—”

John’s beautiful eyes close again, and he emits one of his patented long-suffering sighs. “ _No_ , Sherlock,” he says, but gently. “Not what I meant.”

Sherlock deflates. He sags back against the sofa cushions and flings one arm across his eyes, on the small chance that petulance will change John’s mind somehow.

“Going to sleep on the sofa?” John asks him.

“Don’t want to sleep,” Sherlock mutters. “Want to—”

“Sherlock. Look at me,” John says again. This is his Captain Watson voice, and Sherlock can’t help doing as he says.

John is on his feet again, arms folded again, looking down at Sherlock.

“If,” he says, and swallows hard, “ _if_ you still feel like that tomorrow, then—”

He swallows again, then nods: the single brisk, firm military nod that means he’s made up his mind.

Sherlock thinks about this for a long, long moment. His brain seems to have been coated in custard and then deep-frozen. Finally, finally, he works it through to a stunning conclusion: John isn’t saying no. John has thought about this, too, and _he isn’t saying no._

“All right,” Sherlock says, unable to stop smiling even though he suspects it makes him look deranged. “Tomorrow.”

John exhales sharply. “Fine. Good,” he says. “Now, c’mon, up you get. You’ll get a crick in your neck sleeping like that.”

Sherlock lets himself be tugged up off the sofa and shoved gently in the direction of his bedroom, lets John take his shoes and jacket off and herd him into a t-shirt and pyjama trousers and firmly close the door. John’s gone, but not far, and it doesn’t matter, because: Tomorrow. Tomorrow. _Tomorrow._

Sherlock falls asleep to the sound of the shower running.

* * *

Sherlock wakes the next afternoon with a raging thirst, a feeling of unexplained euphoria, and a strong sense of having done something embarrassing when he was last awake. None of it makes much sense until he stumbles out into the kitchen, yawning, and comes face to face with a wide-awake, fully dressed John Watson.

“Afternoon,” says John, giving him a small, oddly tentative smile.

“Oh,” Sherlock says, because suddenly he remembers _everything._ “ _Oh._ ”

John’s smile slips a bit. “Er, tea?” he says, turning away from Sherlock.

Sherlock scrubs his hands through his sleep-tangled hair, wishing he’d thought to shower and shave and dress before attempting … whatever it is he’s about to attempt.

“Please,” he says.

And then, “John, last night—I may have said—some things—”

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” John says, getting down mugs and teabags. “You don’t have to—”

“ _John_.”

John turns and looks, inquiring; hopeful?

“I know I sounded like the most enormous idiot,” Sherlock says, rushing ahead in an effort not to lose his nerve. “The thing is, John—I—” He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them and fastens his gaze on his own bare toes. “It was all true,” he says, in a very small voice. “All of it. Apparently I had to be, er, ‘half off my face’ in order to say it out loud. But. So I. You said ‘tomorrow,’ and I wondered whether—”

He can’t bring himself to look at John, because what if the resounding silence means John is horrified? What if, oh God, John was just humouring him last night, fully expecting that he would have come to his senses by morning?

Then he hears a soft rustling of wool and corduroy, and John’s hand is on his shoulder.

“I could be wrong,” John says softly, “but I think it’s tomorrow.”

Sherlock’s head comes up, and _Oh!_ John is smiling at him, soft and fond and _warm_.

“Now?” Sherlock ventures.

“Oh, god, yes,” says John, and lunges.

As it turns out, no one drinks any tea in 221B that afternoon.

* * *

 “How long?” John asks.

His blunt, sensitive fingers are threaded through Sherlock’s hair; Sherlock’s head rests in the hollow of John’s shoulder, his ear against the exit wound.

Sherlock briefly considers asking for clarification, pretending not to understand exactly what John means. But for the first time there’s literally nothing he needs to hide from John. He’s surprised by the buoyant feeling this thought produces. He suspects that prevaricating would spoil it.

“Difficult to say,” he answers instead, truthfully. “I suspect I’ve felt this way from the beginning, but—”

John tilts his head so that his lips brush Sherlock’s temple. “Feelings,” he says. “Not really your area.”

“No,” Sherlock agrees. “I … this has never exactly happened to me before. This combination of …” He considers how to put it. Desperate wanting and deep contentment, perhaps. The coincidence of demands from the transport (which have recurred sporadically for two decades, though never quite so stridently) and the novel sensation of—

He sits up straight, pulling away from John’s hands, John’s heartbeat.

John looks at him: patient, expectant.

“I thought the _flat_ was home,” Sherlock says in a rush, “but it wasn’t. It never was. You were. You _are_.”

John blinks.

“I mean—I don’t know how to—” Sherlock tugs at his hair in frustration, his fingers so close to where John’s just were—John’s perfect, paradoxical hands, gentle and fierce, strong and subtle, doctorly and deadly—suddenly he is desperate for John’s touch but unsure how to ask for it.

He opens his mouth and what comes out, unbidden, is, “John.”

And John, because he is in every way extraordinary and in some ways absolutely perfect, reaches for him and folds him in tight.

“Would you like to hear my professional diagnosis?” John murmurs into Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock nods.

“Well,” John says, and Sherlock can hear the fond smile in his voice, “I could be wrong, but I _think_ that sounds like being in love.”

Sherlock blinks idiotically, trying to process this. He knows what John means, of course—love is so often a factor in crimes of all kinds—but he’s never expected to experience that particular kind of love himself. Or, really, anything more intense and intimate than the strong but rather vague affection he feels for Mrs Hudson and his mother and father.

“How would I know?” he says, finally. “If I were in love?”

He sits back slightly and eyes John sidelong, watching for ... what exactly? But John just keeps breathing calmly next to his ear.

“Hmm,” he says, after a moment. “Symptoms of love. Well: do you experience an inexplicable desire to hold on and never let go?”

Sherlock winds his arms around John’s ribcage and squeezes gently.

“Okay.” John smiles against Sherlock’s ear. “And … do you feel you’d be willing to do ridiculous things to elicit a particular sort of smile?”

Sherlock thinks about the way John smiles at him (at him and no one else) when he does something unexpectedly … human. “Yes,” he says.

“And, er, do you feel you’d rather spend the rest of your life putting up with … er … well, in your case, aesthetically distressing jumpers, crap telly, being nagged to eat and sleep more than once a week and shouted at for putting body parts in the fridge than have a so-called normal, healthy relationship with any other person on earth?”

Sherlock pulls away again slightly, in order to frown at John.

“How did you _know_ that?” he demands. “How could you _possibly_ know that?”

John’s cornflower-indigo-midnight eyes light up and his face creases into a grin. “Idiot,” he says fondly, the way only John can say it so that it’s half caress and half cuff round the head. “I know because I feel exactly the same.”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes. “Oh, that’s—”

If there’s anything in the universe more unexpected than being in love himself, it’s the idea that someone else could possibly be in love with him.

On the other hand … on the other hand, that explains a great many things about John.

“That’s …?” John prompts him gently.

“Good. That’s good. That’s … really good.”

“Brilliant,” says John, his grin returning and going into overdrive. “Fantastic.”

He runs his left thumb down the side of Sherlock’s face, from temple to chin, then threads his fingers through Sherlock’s hair again and curves them warmly round the back of Sherlock’s skull.

“Come here and kiss me,” he says, half command, half question.

“Yes,” says Sherlock, and does.


End file.
